


Your Overcoat Wishes You Ruin

by Sholio



Series: Free of Surface Ties [22]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Crack, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter hates Polythreme, and can't figure out why his wife and Neal like it so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Overcoat Wishes You Ruin

**Author's Note:**

> I suspect that, of our various Fallen London fusion stories, this one might make even less sense than usual when taken out of context. Polythreme is another of the places you can zail to in the game. Everything in Polythreme is alive, and I do mean EVERYTHING. You can pursue storylines while you're there (most having to do with intrigue and mysteries) but your main challenge is overcoming your own misbehaving clothing. Like all the other titles in this series, this one is taken from the title of an opportunity card. (The ones for Polythreme are very entertaining.)

Peter was chasing his coffee cup around the table in a small Polythreme cafe when a very large bundle of scarves, hats, gloves, and the odd boot shuffled up and sat down across from him.

"Hi, Neal," Peter said, making an educated guess. He finally managed to corner the cup against a cooperative butter dish and pounced. It made a pathetic squeaking noise, like a mouse caught by a cat.

"Hi," Neal said. Somewhere in the depths of the pile of laundry, Peter caught a glimmer of a bright blue eye. "I made friends with a clothes-colony. It wants to come with us. Can we keep --"

"No," Peter said. The writhing scarves wilted like the leaves of an underwatered houseplant.

"There's no need to be so abrupt about it." One of Neal's hands appeared from the depths -- at least Peter hoped it was Neal's hand; it was wearing a lace glove, so he couldn't tell for certain -- and patted a mat of scarves. "There, there. Everything is so very friendly here," he added cheerfully.

"Only to you." As Peter brought the cup to his mouth, it began to wibble. "Shut up," he told it. The cup wibbled louder.

"Awww, Peter, you're scaring her."

"Her?"

The cup burst into tears.

Peter gave up and poured the coffee onto the ground, then replaced the cup on the table, where it was comforted by a spoon and napkin.

"I really hate this place."

"You just have to relax and enjoy it, Peter. Go with the flow, and you'll like it."

"What's to like?" Peter retorted. "I can't have a decent meal without getting backtalk from the tableware, not to mention the food itself. My shoes aren't speaking to each other, my pocketwatch has a crush on you -- _Stop_ that," he snapped as the fob peeked out of his pocket. It hastily ducked back inside. "I wish El would wrap up whatever she's doing and get back to the ship before the ship itself decides to marry a nice local girl and settle down."

Peter looked around for his wife. While Neal had been charming everything in sight, including the paving stones, El had been much more goal-oriented (notwithstanding a few arguments with a particularly recalcitrant petticoat). Peter knew that whatever she was doing had something to do with delivering a message for Diana, but she had been cheerfully evasive whenever he'd asked. Occasionally he had glimpsed her in the distance, industriously traipsing about to ruins and asking questions of locals, while he had his hands full trying to keep his waistcoat from conspiring to run off with his trousers.

Ah, there she was. The love of his life and apple of his eye appeared out of an alley, scribbling busily in her notebook. Peter couldn't help noticing, by the drape of her skirts, that she'd managed to lose the rebellious petticoat somewhere. He tried not to wonder where it had gone and whether it was currently plotting against them.

"Hi, hon," El said, plunking herself down at the table with them. "Hi, Neal."

Peter's battered gray overcoat attempted to cop a feel of his petticoatless wife with its coattail; he hastily sat on it, and accepted her hello kiss before asking, "Can we leave yet?"

"What, now?" El was breathless with eagerness. Under any other circumstances, Peter would have loved that pink-cheeked, excited look on her. Unfortunately he had a bad feeling that he wasn't going to want to hear what she was excited about, and when she went on, he found that he was right. "Honey, we can't leave _now._ I've received some very reliable information that there's going to be a new Unfinished Man born tonight -- or created, or however it's done. We must find a place to hide and watch! Oh, I wish I'd brought my camera."

Peter tried to think of something he wanted to do less than observing the natal habits of Clay Men. Various incidents involving sorrow-spiders came to mind, as well as that time he'd accompanied a detachment of Constables to a household that had trapped a Starveling Cat in the basement. But it was a close thing. "Why?" he finally asked.

El looked up from her notes. A dark curl had come loose and bounced over her nose. "What do you mean, why?" she asked in a distracted way.

Somehow his arguments with El always went this way. They'd have a few rounds of mutual confusion, and then he'd end up doing whatever she wanted him to do anyway. "Never mind," he said with a sigh. 

His coffee cup appeared to have run off with its spoon. He hoped they'd have a pleasant life together.


End file.
